I left Springfield for the last time on a gray afternoon in late June. Katy was in her cat carrier, which I’d placed on the passenger seat of the Wrangler so she could see me while I drove. Even so, she cried but eventually curled up and slept. Our old Chevy HHR was before me, with Al at the wheel. As I did throughout the six-hour drive south toward North Carolina, I watched Murphy Brown as she sat next to him in the passenger seat, looking from behind like a child glancing out the window. It made me chuckle whenever I studied her silhouette.
I was so incredibly tired, and the idea of driving for hours made me even more so. We’d gotten up at six that morning to pack our remaining items like the bedsheets, food, and the remnants of our clothes. We then began to carry outside all the boxes we’d packed, starting in the attic and continuing down two floors to the basement. I’d built a platform of folding tables in the garage we used to stack the boxes on. That way, nothing would get wet if it rained, as was predicted. When most of the boxes were in the garage, they were stacked so tall I could not reach the top. With most of them out of the house, it would make it easier for the movers to clear out the rooms so we could see what was left. The big stuff, like our beds, antiques, tables, televisions, heavy boxes, and living room suite, we’d leave for the men to haul, but the small furniture pieces we could get out of the way by also taking them to the garage.
I am sure that I inherited my obsession with being organized from my father, who, as an engineer, always had lists of jobs to do daily. I’d stuck color-coded adhesive dots on each box so that once the men unloaded them in Murphy, they’d know which floor to carry them to by the color on the dot. I know it sounds obsessive-compulsive, but it worked.
The day before, I walked down to my friend Mary’s house and said goodbye. Julie, the cat, was not present, and I wished I could’ve seen her before we left. Mary told me that Julie still roamed the neighborhood like a wild child but usually came home in the evening and stayed inside all night. She and her husband loved Julie, and I could see she was worried I’d come to take her back. I reminded her that Julie had not been to our house in a very long time. She was their cat and hopefully would stay with them for the rest of her life. She agreed, and we said a tearful goodbye. As I walked toward my street, I looked back at Mary’s house, and there on her front stoop sat Julie. I called her, but she’d didn’t respond to her name. I loved her, but Julie was where she needed to be, watching over two friendly old folks as she had done with my mother. If my mother Nancy were looking down then, I’d bet she was happy that Julie finally had a loving home.
Once the movers arrived, we worked behind them, cleaning each room as they became empty. We kept Murphy in her crate to keep her out of the way. Katy was on our bed until the very last minute when the movers needed to take it apart to carry it out of the house. Al swept each room, then I washed the floors with oil, soap, and water. Once clean, we closed the door, knowing we’d never return. It was bittersweet for both of us.
Because the purchase of our log house and the sale of our home in Springfield all happened so fast, the final details of moving came crashing down around us. Al submitted his retirement papers to the appropriate officials and learned it would take three months to finalize. That made it necessary for him to rent a small apartment down the street from his office in Springfield for three months. A couple of days before our move, we took furniture, kitchen items, and his clothes to the apartment so he could stay there comfortably during the week. He planned to drive to our log home in North Carolina after work each Friday, spend the weekend with us, then return to Springfield on Sunday afternoon. He was taking a week off after the move and would help me settle things in our new house, thank goodness.
Outside of Cincinnati, it started to rain and quickly turned into a downpour. It felt like the sky had opened up, and giant cauldrons of water spilled onto the road before us. I am not the best at driving in heavy rain, so I kept close to the Chevy, hoping Al could see better than I did as we made our way through rush-hour traffic. Unfortunately, once we crossed the river into Kentucky, the rain continued, and we drove south until we spotted a rest area. We stopped to let Murphy try to do her business in the pouring rain, and Al and I took turns at the bathrooms.
It was past ten in the evening when we pulled into a Tennessee motel off the highway. We were thrilled they had a dog-friendly room and hurried to get our girls inside. Katy was so upset that she crawled under the bed, then climbed up into the boxsprings of the mattress where we couldn’t see her and Murphy couldn’t torment her. I put food and water close, along with a cardboard box of kitty litter so she’d have it in case she got over being afraid. Even though I set out food and water for Murphy, she jumped up on the bed and slept. We ate crackers from the vending machine and went to bed.
The next morning the rain had subsided, and after stopping to pick up breakfast at a fast food place, we both drove back onto the freeway, then headed south toward North Carolina. Al figured it would take about two more hours until we reached Murphy, which I was glad to hear.
The moving van was expected to deliver our things to the log house the day after arriving. We pulled into our driveway at ten that morning, sat on the lounge chairs, and chilled out for the rest of the day. Katy found her happy place upstairs on a towel I’d put on the floor. I set out her things nearby, hoping she'd have all she needed when she felt more at ease.
Al took Murphy on a long hike down our gravel road, and when they returned, I found a frozen pizza in the freezer, beer for Al, and LaCroix for me, which was our lunch and dinner. We didn’t care. The tortuous move was almost over, and I didn’t have the energy to worry about anything more at that point. However, I remember one last thing I did before we headed south. As I walked down our driveway in Springfield for the last time, I refused to look at my pond and fish. I could not bear it. When we finally drove away from our beautiful old home, I cried.
*
BIRDS OF A FEATHER
In Springfield, I felt burdened by the violence in my community, as if someone had put heavy bricks on my shoulders to hold me down and keep me from feeling safe. Perhaps it’s because I am a HOSP, too sensitive to live in a non-HOSP environment. But that evening, after the movers brought our belongings into the log home, those bricks fell off my shoulders. A sense of euphoria flowed through me finally, and I felt free as a bird, eager to enjoy my new happy place in the mountains. And from that day to this, I still have that same sense of joy concerning the move we made. Finally, I embraced my new home and community, determined to make it all work out, not only for myself and our girls, Katy and Murphy but for Al as well.
I felt like the log house was ours once we hung my paintings on the tongue and groove walls. I had many smaller paintings of songbirds and hung them on all three levels. But most of my recent work was larger paintings of raptors like hawks, eagles, owls, vultures, and crows, birds I have studied for decades. I hung the large paintings on the first floor, on the walls of the beautiful staircase, and in the master bedroom.
I walked Murphy every day that Al was still working in Springfield, and as I did, I suddenly realized that just past our house was a Crow Roost. They can be noisy birds but also comical, and their nests were high in the trees that lined our road. Roosts are places where Crows go to sleep at night. They wheel into the trees and then have a slumber party.I often looked out my office window on the main floor and observed Crows feeding on grubs in our front yard. They are such social birds, and I enjoy watching them interact with each other. Some males, those Crows who were smaller with striking colors, were precocious. They chatted and strutted in front of the females or chased away male competitors for their prospective mates. Being a birder is thought by some to be nerdy, but I am an ardent birder and proud of it.
I’ve always relished studying birds, as I told you in previous stories in this guide. Still, here in the mountains, I had an amazing opportunity to study birds I’d never seen up close. On our vast covered deck off the back, I hung eight large bird feeders, some filled with seeds and corn, others with suet, dried berries and seeds, and two hummingbird feeders. Usually, it takes days to attract birds to a new feeder, but they came the same day at our house in the mountains. In our previous homes, I never had the perfect feeders set-up. But at the log house, it was an entirely different setting. Our main floor’s covered porch was the ideal place to encourage birds to visit close enough so I could study them. My camera was my cell phone and a good one. So when I realized I had the optimal place to study bird behavior and photograph them in action, I was elated. I later used prints of my bird photos as some of the references for my paintings.
At first, I got the usual bunch, Chickadees, Nuthatches, Titmouse, and Cardinals. They are all seed eaters and common at most feeders throughout the country. But then, I started to get Woodpeckers, another bird I admire. Most are sensitive to humans and will not stay at a suet feeder if they detect a human nearby. To be able to study and photograph them, I had to sit perfectly still when they flew in from our blue spruce tree or the holly berry trees just off the porch. If I raised the cell phone, they vanished. I learned how to prop my elbow on the arm of my vinyl reclining chair and take my shots quickly. Some of the smaller woodpeckers became comfortable with my presence, but the larger Flickers and Yellowbelly Sapsuckers took off as soon as I moved an inch. It got to be a challenge for me, trying to remain still so I’d blend in with my background, and in time I could capture photos of them without scaring them off.
In our mountain community, I often heard the rat-tat-tat sound of a Pileated Woodpecker when I walked Murphy dog. They are big birds, close to eighteen inches for mature females. I was sitting on the back porch early one evening when I heard that rat-tat-tat sound again. Then, a whoosh as a Pileated Woodpecker landed on my suet feeder, forcing it to swing wildly in the air. To say that I was afraid of moving is not strong enough. He pecked at the suet while I sat there frozen in my chair, afraid to move, afraid to click the button on my phone. To observe one of these birds that close is an awesome experience. Even my husband, who is not a birder, got the bug. He’d sit on the back porch and watch on mesmerized as colorful birds would fly in from the fields beyond the river, then eat from the feeders. One afternoon, I saw a stunningly beautiful blue-teal bird I had to look up. He was an Indigo Bunting, which is in the Finch family. I have only seen one in my life, but it was thrilling. Then one spring day, I had a Baltimore Oriole eating dried berries from the suet feeder. I’d studied them in books, but this was the first Oriole I’d observed in person. The list of new-to-me bird sightings got longer as each week passed. What I did not expect were the small mountain species I never knew existed. Those birds are now paintings in my lower-level gallery.
Our son Marc is also a birder, and when he visits us in the mountains, he is struck by the variety and rarity of some of the birds at our feeders. He was standing on the porch one morning when a large Heron took off from a branch hanging over the river and flew right in front of the porch, so close Marc could see his eyes clearly. It’s not an exaggeration to say he was impressed.
*
STRAY DOGS
I began to notice a common occurrence at the far end of our neighborhood. We would see stray dogs in our yard at the oddest hours and without warning. We knew every dog in our small community, so unfamiliar dogs were obvious and noticed. A young dog was in our yard when we drove down the driveway to our new home on the first day. He could’ve been someone’s dog who lived nearby, but we never saw him again. As soon as we exited the car, he raced off, afraid of us. That’s what we found true with most strays that found their way onto our property. Were they afraid of us because someone abused them? Or, as a stray, did someone pick up their gun and shoot at them? It happens.
There are many explanations for some strays. I’ve read that when young male dogs are of breeding age, some break their leashes and take off, scenting a female dog in heat. Then they can get lost, become strays, or run into the street and get hit by cars. I have heard that sad story too many times from people who’ve lost their dogs. The one constant theme in these cases proves my point. When found or rescued, many stray dogs often wore collars with a torn leash dragging behind them. Some breeds are scent or tracking dogs, and take off after the scent of a wild creature like a rabbit or a coon, then get far away from home and cannot find their way back. I have seen that happen numerous times with lost dogs. So heartless animal owners dropping off a dog they no longer want are not always the reason for stray dogs.
*
We’d gone to town to do some errands and returned just as the early evening sky was beginning to turn gray. Al pulled the Jeep up to the side steps, and the headlights of the Wrangler illuminated the area underneath them. We were shocked to see a large dog curled next to our heat pump. Al cautioned me to be careful as I approached him slowly. The dog didn’t stir, but his eyes were on me with every step I took. Finally, I got close enough to see him more clearly. He had no collar, so there were no tags to trace his owners. Al went inside to check on Murphy since she was barking, then returned and stood beside me.
I have no idea what sort of dog he might’ve been. Later I checked my books describing dog breeds, but I couldn’t determine which one he most resembled. He was a handsome dog with long white fur and dark brown patches on his face and body. The poor dog was thin, and his eyes reminded me of other animals I’d seen suffering and in pain.
I would think a dog of his stature with the look of a well-bred animal would have cost someone a good bit of money, but who knows. I quickly realized he was injured and knew that strays often run away when confronted by a stranger. This dog didn’t move from under the steps, even though he feared us. I crouched down and inched closer, telling him he was a good boy and using a gentle tone to not frighten him.
He wasn’t going to move, I decided. Maybe he was in so much pain that he could not move. I slipped away from him, leaving Al to keep watch, and climbed the steps to the house. I returned with a plate of Murphy’s soft dog food and a large plastic bowl full of water. Again, I approached him cautiously, fearing I’d scare him even more. I put the water bowl near his snout, and he immediately lapped it up until it was gone. Then I slid the plate of dog food next to the bowl, and he devoured it. I slowly reached my hand toward his paw and thought I saw some blood on it. But when I gently touched it, he growled low, then bared his teeth. I removed my hand but realized his paw had swollen to twice its size as if he’d been run over by a car or someone had intentionally hurt him. I am not a veterinarian, even though I used to think I’d be a good one. He needed a real vet to tend to his paw. It began to rain when Al and I finally decided he would probably stay there overnight, and we left him with more water and food, but alone under the steps. We had no choice. He was too big for us to carry into the house, and Murphy would have been rightfully upset by an intruder. I am confident he would not have allowed us to do that anyway, so we went inside and were glad we’d been able to give him food and comfort. Maybe he’d get in our car somehow in the morning, and we could take him to our vet.
Early the next morning, I hurried outside to see if he was still there. He’d disappeared during the night, but I saw blood on the leaves where he had lain. I knew he needed medical help, but as an optimist (usually), I hoped he had found his way home and someone would take care of him. I drove around the neighborhood twice, trying to spot him but saw no loose dogs.
I later learned there were no animal control officers in Cherokee County, North Carolina, then. To turn the dog into the local shelter, I’d need to bring him there in person. I never saw that dog again, but I still remember how scared he was of us, even though we were kind and gave him food and water. Nevertheless, he did not trust us, and I don’t blame him.
Not long after the injured dog left our yard, I read in the local newspaper that people in the area were complaining about loose dogs, strays that roamed the countryside searching for food. A reporter asked a county commissioner what he would do about the increasing problem of stray dogs. This interview happened at an open meeting of the commissioners, and he was reported to have said something to the effect: There are no leash laws in this county, so if anyone has stray dogs and doesn’t want them on their property, they can shoot them.
It is a weekly paper, and in the next edition, the community responded in a way that gave me hope. Although some sided with the commissioner, scores of other people were upset by his statement. I am not tarnishing the entire community with a broad brush since most responders were horrified by the commissioner’s comments. Much of the animal control issues in poor counties like this involve the lack of funds. Where there is no money for services, animal control is often the first to be cut. It still does not change an environment where people look away when someone abuses an animal or throws them out like trash.
I cannot tell you how angry his statement made me. But in time, I realized a fact about living in areas where some people treat dogs like belongings. They keep dogs for hunting, tie them up to a dog house and forget to give them food and water or shoot them when the dog is no longer a valuable asset. In many rural areas across this country, I believe there is a holdover mindset from earlier generations when dogs were not family pets but instead possessions used to chase away unwanted visitors or for hunting.
There is no defense for people who, for one excuse or another, drop their dog or cat off somewhere and leave them to fend for themselves and most likely starve. Our neighborhood is next to a two-lane highway. It would be easy to drop off a dog or cat on our road, then hurry away like cowards do when they don’t want to be seen doing something despicable. I agree with the Ranger in Georgia who told me I love animals more than most people. I don't know what I'd do if the people dropping off dogs and cats stood in front of me. Try to shame them, maybe? In the past, I’ve gone up against such despicable people many times and know that trying to shame them is futile. They do not have open minds about this subject, and nothing I could say would change their attitudes. Why? Because they see their animals as…throwaways.
I have been a fighter all my life, standing up to bullies when it was not in my best interest. For years, I sold my artwork to people across the country. I even raised thousands of dollars for non-profits. How could I convince people to change their mindset when they believe dogs and cats are possessions they can discard for whatever reason? I have thought about why there are stray dogs and cats for a long time, but I’ve never found an answer that would prevent them from happening in the first place. How can one person, say a Guardian of the Road, change views rooted and ingrained in some people’s nature as deeply as if implanted by heredity? Attitudes they most likely learned from their parents and grandparents.
*
TOGETHER AGAIN
After three months of going back and forth from Springfield to Murphy, Al’s retirement was finally approved. It was the first day in October, and he’d packed his old Chevy with the clothes and household items from his apartment. When he pulled up to the front of our log house, Murphy, Katy, and I sat on the steps to welcome him home. Previously, he’d had so little time to enjoy our new house. But once he’d moved the rest of his belongings into the house, he walked from room to room, noticing things he’d not seen before. Soon, Al was back to running almost every day, ordered a treadmill meant for a professional gym, and began to get used to not working full-time at a job anymore. It was not easy for him or me. I’d had years to adjust to working at home. Al worked for the government for over 38 years. So he had some adjusting to do.
Even though he had all the time in the world to run, walk the dog, and read books, he wanted to see if a regional office would be interested in hiring him part-time. It took four months, but an agency in Gainesville, Georgia, hired him post-retirement as a reemployed annuitant. Al would be doing the same job he’d done in Springfield, at the same pay, only without the benefits of vacation and sick leave. He began his new position in early March of the next year. Since the road to Gainesville went over the infamous Blood Mountain, with its hairpin turns and slow traffic due to dangerous conditions, it took him at least an hour and a half one way to get to work, then the same time to return. Three hours a day in the car, working four days a week was a brutal schedule, but I admire him for doing it.
We used the additional income from Al’s new job to have a team of painters power-wash and stain the log house. Once finished, the logs turned from a dark moldy grey to a pretty true-log color with a hint of red. It did not look like the same house anymore once they painted the cinder block and wood trim on the exterior of the lower level a deep shade of rust.
Then we hired contractors to demolish much of the lower-level tacky materials, install porcelain tile on the floors, and cedar shiplap siding on the walls. Best of all, we purchased new furniture and rugs for the open area, transforming it into a comfortable family room. For Christmas, Al bought a big-screen television, perfect in that space. Finally, I was excited to set up my first real design studio. I could sit at my new drafting table, which I’d mounted on top of an old farm table, and look outside the picture window while I painted every day.
*
CONNIE THE MOUNTAIN WOMAN-PART I
About a week after Al began to work in Gainesville, I was outside pulling ivy that had grown thick in the gravel of our driveway. Murphy was stretched out in the grass near me, eyes closed and content. I’d used a vinyl rope about 16’ long and hooked one end to her collar, and the other end I tied around a thick poplar tree not far from where I was working. It was rare to see a car go by our house, but since this area was new to all of us, I was determined to err on the side of caution when it came to her safety.
Inside, our new house may have been in excellent condition, but outside, the weeds had taken over all of the grassy areas, the bed of flowering shrubs around the front of the house, and a large circular garden in the center of our driveway. I cannot abide weeds and grass growing up through gravel because, in no time, they will take over, making them almost impossible to remove. I refused to use a grass killer, not with a dog trotting up the driveway daily. So my only recourse was to pull them by hand, which was not easy.
I was so intent on my task that I had not noticed what was happening around me until Murphy started barking and pulling on her leash. I turned and looked up to the front of the property and was surprised to see a woman walking along the road. She had to be close to six feet tall, with white-blond hair cut short and was using a walking stick to make her way slowly past our house. Beside her were three dogs. Two looked to be from the same litter, small and black, about five years old, and of an indeterminate breed. The third dog was a male nearly half as tall as the woman. He had a black, short coat with some white spots, a massive head, long tail, and I had no blessed idea what breed he might have been either. None of the dogs were on a leash or had collars, except for the giant black dog, who wore an expensive-looking leather collar with brass trim. I stood, brushed my hands on my jeans, and began to hike up our driveway toward her. Murphy was still barking, but I ignored her and met the woman at the top.
“Hello! My name is Kathy. We moved here a little while ago, but I have never seen a woman or a man, besides my husband, walk on this road.”
With no preamble, she said gruffly, “The people who used to live at your house were mean as snakes. They’d spray water on Remax, here, and make me freakin’ mad. I live on top of that mountain up there.” She pointed to the steep hill behind her.
I’d driven up there several times and hiked with Murphy around our neighborhood circle a few times. On top of that mountain, I had walked her past a house located down in a deep hollow where I’d heard several dogs barking.
“I think I might know where you live. I walk my dog, Murphy,” and I pointed to the crazy dog barking down near the house, “…up your way. I saw one place down a steep hill and heard some dogs barking. Would that be your house?”
“Yep, that’s my house. Me and my husband Richie live there for almost twenty years. I have chickens, ducks, and lots of dogs. It can get noisy sometimes, but I like my animals.”
Just then, I noticed her left arm. I quickly looked away, but she caught my gaze.
“I had two strokes, a heart attack, Graves disease, and my left arm ain’t no good anymore. I used to drive a big truck hauling shit all over the damn country, but now I can hardly drive my Ford F150. I forgot to tell you my name. It’s Connie, but some folks call me Ceci. I’m trying to get my left leg stronger ‘cause it doesn’t work like it used to after the stroke.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” I said. “You seem to be doing pretty good right now. Up ahead, you have a steep hill. And once you turn up that mountain… it gets even steeper. Are you going around the entire circle…then up that steep hill?”
“Yeah, I ain’t gonna go fast, but I’ll make it. Gotta keep walkin’, or I’ll end up in the recliner with Ritchie waiting on me, hand to foot. Or… six feet under, whichever comes first.”
She smiled, and it brightened her face. I could see that she had probably been an attractive woman when she was younger. I guessed her to be in her late sixties, but later learned she was only fifty-two. I was older than she was but recognized that she’d had a hard life along with her strokes.
“I’ve been wondering about that big dog with you,” I said, looking at him. “What sort of breed is he, do you know?”
“I think he’s Great Dane and part Motherfreaking Killer,” she said, laughing. “Excuse my bad mouth. His name’s Remax, and he belongs to my neighbor Chaps. Chaps lives up that hill back there, just before you get to my house. Everybody always asks why his name’s Remax.”
I nodded and was about to ask the obvious question when she continued.
“Chaps’ wife was watching a teevee show from Chattanooga, and there was an adopt a pet part. A man from an animal shelter was holding two big puppies, trying to get someone to adopt them, or he said they’d be put down. Chaps’ wife wanted one real bad. She called and said she’d adopt the male, the biggest of the two pups. She worked for Remax real estate here in town, so I guess she decided to name him after her company. Next morning, she took off work, raced to Chattanooga, and picked up the pup. After a few months with good food, Remax grew a foot taller. He’s a wild boy, roams the neighborhood day and night, and howls like a coyote when he catches a critter. Sometimes he kills small animals and eats ‘em, probably because Chaps doesn’t give him enough food. Even though he stinks to high heaven, I love ‘em to death. Whenever I walk around this circle, he goes with me, along with Georgia and Virginia here.” Connie pointed to the two black dogs at her heels.
That was how I met one of the most interesting, unusual, funny, and complicated women I’ve ever known. We said our goodbyes that day on the road, but it was the beginning of a long friendship I will cherish for the rest of my days. I’ll tell you the rest of Connie’s story a bit later in Connie the Mountain Woman Part II.
*
REMAX
I have never seen Murphy Brown adore another dog as much as she did Remax. Sometimes he’d accompany Connie on her walks around the circle, but he’d often just come down to our house for a visit. He didn’t come to see Al or me; he came to visit Murphy.
He was so large, strong, and substantial that I could hear the stairs sway under his weight when he climbed the fourteen steps to our side door. Like Murphy’s dog friend Ellie in Springfield, Murphy knew when her boyfriend was nearby before I heard the tell-tale sound of the steps under his weight. She’d cry, whine, and fuss about, wanting to go out and rumble with him. But I was still afraid of what she’d do off-leash, so I’d hook her to her leash and take her outside to see him. On my way out, I’d grab a big handful of milk bones I used to treat her on our walks. Once on our landing, Remax was eager to get her attention. I’d never let her run out alone because I thought she’d follow him anywhere on Earth. Men have a way about them when they want something from a woman… if you know what I mean… both humans and dogs.
Remax would lick Murphy’s face nearly raw, then he’d lick her back and sides. He was a veritable doggy dog wash machine, and Murphy Brown loved it. She’d stand there in sheer bliss as he literally cleaned her from top to bottom. Finally, to make him go away, I’d give him milk- bones, which he devoured. Once he was distracted, I pulled her inside and quickly shut the door.
Often he would loll around, stretching out on the landing as if he owned it. He was such a loveable dog and so funny that I had to laugh at his antics. Remax had so many cuts and scratches, even deep gouges, in his coat that I worried about him. Connie had been right, he stank to high heaven, and I wondered if he rolled in scat. Remax sure smelled like animal poop to me. I still could not picture him killing critters, as Connie claimed, until early one evening when I heard him howl. I didn’t know it was Remax howling at first, but when I opened the door and looked down the steps, I suddenly remembered Connie’s warning about small animals.
From behind me, Murphy rushed the door, trying to get outside. I pushed her back in, closed the door behind me, then turned to face the Motherfreaking Killer. Remax was at the bottom of the steps, his tail wagging joyfully. Then I leaned out and realized he had a rabbit in his mouth. It was dead and looked very recently dead since there was fresh blood on its fur, and its head had flopped to one side. Poor thing, I thought, but stared at the massive bright-eyed beast at the bottom of my steps. Then it all came to me in a flash. Remax wanted to bring Murphy Brown a present to win her favor. So what did he find on his way down to our house? A bunny rabbit, maybe running across my very yard, which I’d often seen them do. His eyes were bright and hopeful, but I quickly ended his hopes and passion.
“Remax,” I said as loud as I could. “Go home! Take that dead rabbit with you! I don’t want it in my yard! I am sorry, buddy, but I will never let Murphy have that present of yours. Now, get on with you,” and I pointed up the hill. “Remax, go home!”
With a bewildered expression, he stared at me, unable to understand that I’d turned down his love gift to Murphy. “Go home, Remax…get out of here, and take that rabbit with you!”
He turned slowly, took a few steps, then dropped the rabbit by the corner of our house (as a parting gift to my dog?), and loped away. When he was about halfway up to the road, Remax turned around and looked at me. I had never seen that dog run, but just then, he trotted down the hill back toward the steps. He stopped, bent his head, took the rabbit in his mouth, and left. I suppose he decided that if Murphy wouldn’t eat his present, he might as well eat it himself. Yikes!
How could anyone be angry at that goofy dog for bringing his girlfriend the only present he could find? He’d probably bit down too hard and killed the poor thing. Probably not.
When I next spoke to Connie, I told her what happened with Remax. She laughed, then said, “That’s my good boy; he brought his girlfriend a present! Too bad you turned it down. Next time he’ll probably bring you a stinkin’ dead skunk!”
Our friendship with Remax continued for a couple of years until he stopped coming to our house. I had not seen him walking with Connie either. Finally, I remembered to ask her what happened to Remax, fearing the worst.
“Connie, where the heck has Remax been? I haven’t seen him in months.”
Connie, always the storyteller, said, “Well, thing is…Chaps and his wife fought all the freaking time, mostly about Remax. She felt he didn’t care for the dog right, and he said she was an… f’n bitch for lovin’ on a dog more than she loved on her husband. They finally decided to get a divorce but couldn’t decide who’d get to keep Remax. Then the real reason for the divorce came out. The wife heard Chaps had a girlfriend, left Remax alone all the time, and forgot to feed him. They ended up going to divorce court. The wife told the judge her story about Chaps not feeding Remax. Chaps denied every word she said. The judge read letters from both of them, asking for custody of the dog. He finally decided the wife should be in charge of Remax full-time since she’d take better care of him and ensure he got fed. Funny thing about it all, no one mentioned the girlfriend! So, after all that shit, Chaps lost his house, wife, custody of his two nice daughters, and an awesome dog. Damn straight!
“Couple of weeks ago, I saw Remax sitting in her little car at the Walmart parking lot. He looked kinda cramped, scrunched down on the passenger seat an’ all, but he also looked freakin’ fabulous, with no more cuts and nicks in his coat. And best of all, he looked well-fed and happy.”
*
THE COYOTE AND THE COW
Once Al began his new job in Gainesville, we were eager to have the lower level of our log house remodeled. I’d mentioned to my new friend Connie that we needed to find a competent, reliable contractor to do the work. Connie knew the perfect guy. Her husband Richie had a brother, Gary, who’d been in the construction business most of his life. Gary and his wife spent winters in Florida, where he worked for construction companies. Then, when the weather turned too hot, they came up to the mountains and lived on a homestead in the county. Connie told me Gary wanted to stay in Murphy for another month that spring, so it would be great if he could find a job like ours.
I called to see if he was interested in our project. I’d had a lot of experience with contractors for work on our many houses and several projects I oversaw professionally. Gary came over to the house and established the scope of work, calculated the materials needed, and gave me a firm bid. Al and I accepted his proposal, and he started right away. On the first day, he and Ritchie arrived early to begin the demolition. I learned the two men were best friends and brothers from a large Italian family in Brooklyn, New York. They planned on finishing the work for us in about three weeks.
Al and I helped them remove the fake wood walls made of a cardboard-like material and the trim boards on top and bottom. Then came the backbreaking job of shoveling up the particleboard that the former owners had glued down to the cement foundation. Inch by inch, we scraped the wood off the floor and removed it by the first week's end. Gary was a professional, he knew his job, came to work on time, stuck to his estimate, and both Al and I liked him. Ritchie worked alongside him, and even though construction wasn’t his strength, he and Gary were a team and got the job done efficiently. The shiplap walls were up and ready to seal by the end of week two. I toiled along with them most of the time, acting as the cleanup crew. Al was in Gainesville during most of the remodel but checked on the progress daily.
We were waiting on the local big box lumber store to deliver pallets of 16” by 16” porcelain tile I’d ordered. The men had already cleaned the area, then prepped the floor for the tile. I was upstairs working in my office when I heard Gary yell.
“Kathy, get down here fast! You gotta see this!”
Over the last few months, I’d been having a lot of pain in my knees, which made standing for long periods difficult. I had not complained to the men and continued as their clean-up side-kick. I limped down to the lower level through the house. By the time I got to the bottom, Gary and Ritchie had disappeared. Then I glanced out the open double doors and saw them near the river bank. Soon, I was standing next to them.
Ritchie stood with his back to me. Gary was facing the river, holding his cell phone up as if about to take a photo. Instead, he turned, held a finger to his lips, and pointed across the water. On the other side of the river, I saw an unusually large Coyote quickly making his way along the banks. Following close behind him was a massive cow with swollen teats. She was a dirty-white color with no markings, but as she charged ahead, her large form shook from the effort. On her face was the most hateful look I’d ever seen on an animal. It was easy to see that the cow intended to run the coyote off, if not worse.
“Good gracious,” I said softly, completely in awe of the vision before me.
Ritchie spoke as he pointed. “The trees don’t have their leaves yet, so we’ve been able to watch the cow chase that coyote from well before the bend in the river.. . just past the last house. She has a calf back there the coyote has been stalking, and the look on her face is pure hate.”
I just nodded. The cow had to be at least a thousand pounds and seemed hell-bent on killing the coyote or maiming him forever. After a few minutes, they disappeared from view.
Gary was new to the mountains, and he and Ritchie were excited that they got to see something they’d never experienced before in person: animals at their most dangerous and most determined. I’d never seen anything like it before. Gary checked his camera and found what he’d been seeking. “Kathy, take a look at this!”
I took the camera/phone from his hands and checked the screen. Perfectly framed was a photo of the dirty white cow chasing that big Coyote, with the intention of murder apparent on her face.
“Wow,” I said, handing it back to him. Ritchie came over and also looked at the photo.
“You know who that crazy bitch of a cow reminds me of?” Ritchie said with a smirk.
I had grown to like him during his work at our house. He could be charming and funny.
Both Gary and I shook our heads.
“Connie, of course. If you do shit to make her mad, she’ll chase you to hell and back with a shotgun in her hands.” Because it was most likely true, we all laughed, then went back inside.
*
Check back in about two weeks for the next edition
of the Guardian of the Road Blog
by Kathryn K. Lehotsky-wildlife artist
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